The newly married couple was nearing their pew, and the way in which Patrick Foakes had folded his wife’s arm into his, making her walk very close to him down the aisle, only strengthened Penelope’s belief in the love match.

Besides, the Earl of Slaslow was walking directly behind his former betrothed, and his mild resemblance to a bulldog made her shudder. To Penelope’s mind, Patrick’s sooty eyes had distinct precedence over Braddon’s plump amiability. Wealth and titles had nothing to do with this … this air of sensuality that breathed from Patrick Foakes.

“Look at that,” Lady Prestlefield said. “Erskine Dewland is walking again. I thought the doctors said he would never walk.”

Penelope watched Erskine—Quill, as he was known to his friends—make his way down the aisle with disinterest. Then she twisted about to watch the newlyweds leave. The great doors stood open and the Foakeses were standing at the top of the marble steps with their backs to the chapel. A ray of lazy sunshine caught them there, turning Sophie into a slim golden flame and Patrick into a dusky winter god next to her summer glow. As Penelope watched, Patrick bent over to kiss his bride again.

“You can say what you like,” Penelope Luster said fiercely to her closest friend. “But I shall always maintain that this is a love match! And I don’t intend to entertain anyone else’s opinions on the subject.”

Sarah cast a sideways glance at Penelope’s tightly closed lips. Penelope was a mild woman most of the time, but when she took a notion, she clung to it like a cur.

“All right, Penelope, all right,” she whispered. Sarah patted Penelope’s hand. “I’ll agree with you, of course. And you know that Maria loves a romance. Look at her—she’s sniffing into a handkerchief.” The Countess Maria Sefton was one of the most influential ladies of the London ton.

And so it was that Patrick Foakes was able to sweep away the reigning beauty of London, steal her from his own best friend, marry her out of hand, and escape with impunity. Rather than turning up their noses or whispering cruel commentary out of the corners of their mouths, the London ton glowed with consciousness of their own generosity. Such sweet, beautiful children, Patrick and Sophie! Lovers will be lovers, people reminded themselves.

Braddon manfully did his best, swallowing his resentment at losing yet another perfectly good woman to the Foakes brothers.

“It was like Romeo and Juliet,” he said carelessly, as Lord Winkle sidled his way over to him at the ball following the wedding and asked how it felt, having his closest friend steal his betrothed. “Couldn’t stand in their way, could I? Like Tristan and …” He felt a bit uncertain. What were the names of all those confounded lovers they had to learn about in school?